I’m Sick of This Shit

13122017

Your Blogmeister’s Secret Hideout

I’m really, really sick of this shit.

Now that I’m on the sunny side of this fifteen round bout I went with some variant of the influenza virus in the ring, a whole lot of orange juice, vitamin drinks and Tylenol saw me through it, (docs didn’t want to give me Tamiflu because my immune system was fine and I’m not a high risk age or illness group), even though I think it will take another day or two for me to shake the lingering symptoms, my natural impatience is starting to seep through.

I want to get over this flu for good.

Then I want my memory back, all of it. I’m getting tired of my brain fucking with me, echoing names through my head like Nicholas Stix, or Chiseled Adonis, or Petronius, or Fightology, or Gentle Grizzly, or Chastity Prejean, or William McKinnon, or Cejuan25, or Hondo, or Vincent Law, or Randell Gary, or Lana Lokteff, or many others, and then the same brain will turn around and not let me remember who any of these people are or why they’re supposed to be important to me. All these names going through my head that I don’t inherently remember. Goddamnit.

Then I want my cognitive function back, all of it. Including my speed of thinking and my reaction time. I also want all of my logic and reason ability back. I’m tired of my brain fucking with me, making me think it would be a good idea to pull up on my assailant at the address where I know he lives, coax him out, and then just let loose with the strap, or, failing that, I could always burn down his parents’ house. First off, I can’t drive, so I couldn’t get there — It would take hell of a long time to get there in a non-motorized wheelchair. Second, if I ask someone in my immediate corporeal circle to drive me to such and such address in such and such place for the purpose of either murdering someone or burning that house down, they’d be as crazy as I am right now if they agreed to it. Third, doing any of that won’t make my situation any better off. I’d still be the same brain damaged semi-gimp after committing one or more major felonies as I was before.

Then I want my physical function back, all of it. I want to be able to drive a car and play golf again. I don’t want this wheelchair to be my permanent drinking buddy.

[Outstretched upwards-facing palm]

Give it here. Right now. Not six months from now, not three months from now, not next month, not next week, not tomorrow, not this evening, not later this afternoon, not after lunch, but right the fuck now.

Really, I know that it’s not going to be that easy, or that quick.

I also know what all the experts with all the diplomas have told me over and over again: One day at a time. I have to live one day at a time, fully understanding and accepting my current limitations and handicaps, meaning I have to operate in the sphere of what I’m able to do and try to make the best of it. You know, the whole “don’t let what you can’t do interfere with what you can do” after school special bromide. Because it will be at least a handful of months and maybe more than another year until we know how well I’ll recover, and if my plateau is at any state in any way underneath what I was when July 19 started, from there we can go forward adjusting to the new normal.

I guess what I really should be writing here is that I want my whole pre-July 19 life back again. I want to live again, I want to be productive again, I don’t want to be a useless parasite anymore. It’s been so long that I don’t even know anymore what my own house looks like. Hell, it’s been so long since I’ve done any form of, well, that, that I think I’ve forgotten what that is all about, and I might have to be given “the talk” again. I’m wondering if the TBI hasn’t affected that particular functionality, because I haven’t had an ounce of desire to do any hand to gland combat, much less any chance that I’d be able to engage in said activity with any willing women; the lack of such women is understandable considering the circumstances.

And as I sit here today, still in bed, I can’t be certain of getting any one of these things back, or even if what I’ve gotten back in my recovery so far will even stick with me. As you all know, I can’t even be 100% certain about just plain staying above ground, even though the more time goes on, the slimmer the already slim odds of that happening become.

Now, back to a more reality-based situation at hand, the doctors were spot on when they predicted that during the low points of my battle with the flu that I’d have occasions when the scant few times I would feel well enough just to get out of bed and use the pot would be times when my lingering TBI problems would mean I wouldn’t have full and proper motor control of my legs. The people who helped me in those situations, well, they’re saints, if only because they had to see things that they could never un-see. Further complicating things is that several flu symptoms are fatigue, vomiting, headaches and general body aches. Of course I had those and all the other common flu symptoms since the infection really set in, but the problem is that those I listed are also lingering TBI symptoms for me, so I couldn’t tell if they were coming from the flu, the TBI or a little of both at the same time.

For the record, I had this year’s flu shot, so I am told, in late October. Turns out it was no help at all, and I see that that’s probably going to be a very common story this winter. This is also my second flu tour of duty, my first when I was 18 years old, and in that year, the flu set in immediately after I got the flu shot, which means the flu shot caused it, the “inert” virus in that shot turned out to have been still alive.

To net it out, I’m tired of operating on just half a brain and half a body.

Eventually I’ll explain why October was for the most part a really bad month for me, the Latin phrase I use is “mensis horribilis.” Funny, I can think of the Latin phrase for “horrible month” off top, but I still don’t inherently remember you in particular, or anyone other than Norm who has written comments in this post so far.

I’ll give you a hint that a lot of the things at work now, my expectations crashing up against my limitations, were at work in October, that the docs think my brain was starting to recover, enough for me to start mentally churning expectations, but not enough to fulfill them. Hence, the suicide intimations, the rants that I wish the accident would have killed me, the ranting and raving, the throwing things around. Among other things.

What really worries me now is that I don’t have a goon or thug bone in my body, but my brain is telling me simultaneously to be a goon and resisting my own goony thoughts, at the same time. With my full mental capabilities, there’s not a cell of me that even considers murdering my assailant or arsonizing his parents’ house, and it scares me to think that my brain is starting to think that way, even if it is entirely a function of it being damaged, and even if most of me soundly rejects my own internal proposal.